March Madness

We want him to die.

And not a peaceful death, either. Something ravenous, like vultures in the desert, peeling his flesh bit by bit, leaving some for later, inflicting great pain, unendurable pain, pain that lasts forever, pain that even death cannot relieve, because death is always near but never final.

Something like that. Something with style.

We don’t know that we’ve ever felt something like that, at least about somebody living. Hitler, sure, but he was long gone before we showed up. Name one of history’s great murderers, yeah, we’ll hop in the time machine and snuff him in his crib. And it’s not like we haven’t shared the planet with a few during our time here, but they were all over there one way or another, not here.

Donald Trump is here. And we want him to die. Because Donald Trump has become one of history’s great murderers. And we’ve reached the point where there’s no other way to get rid of him.

While we’re waiting for the Secret Service to show up at our door in locked-down Denver, perhaps we should tell you about the past week. It started with the Kill Grandma fad, the idea that it was a citizen’s patriotic duty to die for one’s economy. It wasn’t his idea — few of them are, as he lacks the mental capacity — but he was happy to amplify it, as only a President of the United States of America can. And it wasn’t quite like he was ordering U.S. Marshals to roam the country with pillows and plastic bags to cull the herd, but causing overwhelming casualties in order to reopen businesses seemed an acceptable cost to the benefit.

You ever read one of those articles about how insurance companies assign a dollar amount to human life? It felt like that, but with a penny jar.

Anyway, that woke us up in the middle of the night. We try to take things in as they come, the gestalt of the madness, but we’re finding it hard to confine the endeavor to standard sentient hours these days. We’re processing overtime just to keep up with the devastation.

It’s not merely the incompetence, we should mention to Agent Smith before he cuffs us in our work pajamas. That’s already baked in. It’s tragic, but it’s not spiteful. Dubya was responsible for more than a few unnecessary deaths on his watch, but we wanted justice for that crew, not vultures circling in the hot sun. Even if we did have to settle in the end for a thrown shoe.

Lack of planning? Throwing away the plans already made? Throwing away the people whose job it was to carry out the plans? Save all that for the T&R Commission.

No, what got us thinking about vultures enjoying a seven-course meal was this comment, Thursday night:

“I don’t believe you need 40,000 or 30,000 ventilators. You know, you go into major hospitals sometimes and they’ll have two ventilators. Now all of a sudden they’re saying, ‘Can we order 30,000 ventilators?'”

People are going to die because of comments like that. Painful deaths. Lingering deaths. Deaths in overcrowded hospitals. Deaths from the wartime triage necessary to ration limited lifesaving equipment and supplies.

Unnecessary deaths. Avoidable deaths. Preventable deaths.

Because a sociopathic narcissist is running the show, and he wants to spite states that didn’t vote for him.

And that is why he must die. Now. To save countless lives. Because we’ve run out of options. And god knows what he’s gonna do in the nearly ten months he has remaining to do it.

Oh, right. That’s another thought we’ve been having the past week or two: We don’t know how thus country is going to survive until January 20, 2021. Not with this murderer in power. Not with the demons he’s already set loose. Not with god knows what demons he has yet to set loose, day after grueling day. We don’t know what’s going to happen when the desperation really sets in, his and everybody else’s. We really don’t.

All we know is that as long as Donald Trump is soiling that carpet in the Oval Office, things are always going to be worse — much worse — than they might have been. Spitefully worse. Lethally worse.

And for that, we wish him dead. Because we’ve fucking had enough of this shit.

24 Comments

Apparently Michigan is having trouble ordering medical supplies because the federal hooligans told vendors not to ship there — Dem governor is feuding with Trump.

The man must die. I don’t care how. Fall down the stairs. Choke on a Big Mac. Anything.

@nojo:
Anal electrocution during one of his Nuremberg rallies. No stoppin’ til the corpse is smokin’.

Or really OG by using just a hammer.

How the ever living focke can all these asswipes around him and VP Dunce keep testing positive, and he doesn’t?

REPORTER: “Why won’t you DIE???”

#AntiChrist

We now have more cases than China, and we did it with a population one quarter their size. Not only that, we’re still in the expansion phase and, because we don’t have enough tests to go around, have no idea how high the number will go. We win!

/books/

I’ve been starving for books to read, and I’ve been toying with the idea of finally tackling Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon, but sweet FSM I just can’t make myself click the download button on some interminable, pretentious, intellectual anti-treatise.

Me feel dumb now : )

@¡Andrew!: I’ve gone a generation ignoring Pynchon, and I’m not about to break my streak. I’m sure he has some fascinating and insightful things to say, but I’ve done my smartypants tour.

@nojo: Pure escapism is what’s needed in these troubled times.

P.S. I coulda said I was finally gonna read Infinite Jest, ha ha.

In King County, it’s now officially 28 Days Later.

@¡Andrew!: I’m tracking the situation in Denver via weekly grocery shopping. Yesterday Safeway and Whole Foods had tape on the floor to enforce distancing in the checkout lines — and WF wasn’t letting anyone into the store until somebody else came out.

@nojo:
Same here. From the major chains to the local Indian Grocery.

I was the only one not wearing a mask.

@¡Andrew!: If you want pure escapism with a dash of subversive feminism, I suggest the Lady Sherlock mystery series.

American politics is returning to a bizarre state of normal this week. Praise for Trump from the usual suspects, culture war over social distancing (i.e. science), Republicans forging ahead with their ACA lawsuit. I’m seeing some wishful thinking that America Will Learn From This, but I have yet to see any evidence.

@ManchuCandidate: Yeah, that’s my source. People who live in their heads have a hard time accepting reality.

@ManchuCandidate: Gawd must luv our nation’s stupid, loud-mouth, know-nothing assholes, since He gave us an infinite supply of them.

All of the despicable, abusive Tr666p-humping shitheads that’ve forced this monstrous moron on us are gonna be quite surprised when they become “crisis corpses” in the next few weeks.

Remember the Stinque ship idea?

Glad we didn’t. See USS Theodore Roosevelt, the CoVID19 Carrier.

@ManchuCandidate: I don’t see how the cruise ship/floating tomb industry bounces back from this one. Half the passengers were already erupting from both ends due to rampant noroviruses, and now death makes ship calls.

I picked the wrong week to quit… oh who’re we freakin’ kidding, if now’s not the time to embrace the sweet cocoon provided by drugs, then when would be?

@¡Andrew!:
I don’t want them to.

They didn’t have to be if they flew the US flag and treated their water/sewage and cleaned their ships thoroughly as per OSHA regs.

Hilarious when after several decades of flouting US law and taxes via flying flags of Panama and Liberia they get rightfully fucked over when they beg for a bailout from the US and none is there.

False flag operation indeed.

@ManchuCandidate: I also wanna see packed pews in Tr666p-worshiping, Evilungelical megachurches on Sunday, but I’m not bitter, tee hee hee.

I’m sure that the courts will have no problems processing 80 million bankruptcies in the next three months or so. Should we be concerned?

/seen online/

“Evilungelical ChrISIStians declare Prezirapist AntiChrist their supreme Messiah,
Gawd replies with tornadoes, earthquakes, floods, and a plague.”

@¡Andrew!:
Well that’s what happens you dance around the Golden Asshole.

I know how I’ll get that done.

Quart of clams, full quart, all bellies, left out in the sun for a day.

I wait across the street in Lafayette Park and woof the entire rancid thing down in one go.

Then I sprint across the White House lawn after hurtling over the fence and run straight through the Oval Office window while tearing off my trousers.

Once I get hold of his ears I plant my asshole straight into his mouth and send a geyser or rancid green goo exploding down his fat, veined throat, cutting off his air supply with a solid wet plug of acrid clam shit.

Dolt45 will be gone in seconds. I’ll rise from the floor to receive the applause of the USSS.

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